


Of Stones and Shells and Sea Glass (The Things We Throw Out to Sea)

by ohmygoshwhatascream



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: AKA they go to the sea and S01E06 doesn't exist, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff, Inaccurate Geography, M/M, So many tropes, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, everyone is soft, so many metaphors, the sea, what if i just used copious amounts of metaphors to show their love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:21:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22456414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmygoshwhatascream/pseuds/ohmygoshwhatascream
Summary: They escape, just for a bit. Leave behind the misery of the world, head towards the coast.It's a break they both needed more than anything. A moment of peace where they can simply be with no worry for what the next day might bring.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 14
Kudos: 186





	Of Stones and Shells and Sea Glass (The Things We Throw Out to Sea)

**Author's Note:**

> Confession, I've not read the books/played the games and I've still not finished the netflix series (I'm still on episode 3) and literally I just fell in love with Jaskier on E02 and I've read a fuck ton of fanfiction so my knowledge of the Witcher universe primarily comes from the fics I've read.
> 
> Basically, I've taken real artistic liberties with geography and it's 100% completely made up and super inaccurate.

The sea is endless; a vast expanse of blue that appears to go on for eternity, as if there is no end to it. One could craft a boat, sail away into the sunlight forever and ever, never to return. 

There's something so peaceful about it, something tranquil yet solemn that glints over that eternal horizon. Light is trapped in the surface of waves, streaks of spun silver gliding across the water like shooting stars. The sun falls and sets the sky alight with pinks and reds and fiery oranges that blaze over blue, wildfire caught in candyfloss clouds. 

It's _nice,_ here. Away from everything. The world seems so big, so huge and endless and vast from here.

Even if, on the landmass that rests behind them, things are beginning to fall to pieces. There is still beauty left in the world, still places unmarred by misery. Back on land is where monsters roam free and war brews like stormclouds in night sky, but out here, with the sea stretched out before them in its endless glory, there is hope. Everything suddenly appears so small, as though where they have come from is simply a tiny little island, stranded in a world much bigger than they could ever truly know _._ Even if that's not true, even if the sea will eventually end and their world is much smaller than it seems, hope for better days to come lingers in the air like the pollen of flowers, hazy and sweet and fleeting, but still there.

It is them who have created wars and pain and suffering from the tips of their fingers and the blades of their swords, it is their kind, all those who live behind, ho have morphed the world into something hateful. Yet for a moment - out here, at lands very end - they can pretend that things are alright. They can see the _goodness_ , the bits that make life worth living.

Geralt needed the break, Jaskier thinks as he looks over at his companion. His hair catches the sunrise, painted in orange where the light traces its white edges. He's a silhouette against the blazing sun and his very skin seems to glow softly of crimson and fire. Jaskier shifts closer to him, knocking their shoulders together in a gesture of familiarity. 

Geralt turns to look down at him, the shadows of his face no longer as dark as they had once been. The line of his mouth isn't so thin, the arch of his eyebrows no longer so tensed. He's hard to read, Geralt, but Jaskier has always made an effort to learn the mysteries of the world, and the mystery of the White Wolf was perhaps one that Jaskier had spent a good deal of his time and his life trying to figure out. He's getting the hang of it now, he thinks. Or he wonders if Geralt is still just as hard to read as ever and if it is only with Jaskier when he lets his guard down, lets his emotions be read and received and _understood._

He looks peaceful, calm. Relaxed. Not overjoyed, not bursting with happiness and not emblazoned with smiles and laughs and other such things. He's happy in his own quiet sort of way, the one that you have to look for; have to know the signs and know the subtle differences to read between the lines. Geralt is subtle. There is strength and hardness and callousness in him, shadows and lines and hard edges; but there is gentleness there, too. Just below the surface, just hidden from view.

Geralt would never admit it, but Jaskier _knew_ he was tired. Not physically, Witchers didn't need sleep, not like humans. They were stronger, more resilient to the ways of the world than Jaskier ever would be. They healed quick, bodies healing deep wounds that would have been the deaths of others. They could push themselves to the very extreme, they could wander tirelessly for years upon years and never once stop to have a break. That was their curse, in a strange way. Some people would give up everything to have the strength of a Witcher, the lifespan and the energy and the endless determination; but it _was_ a curse to see the world move ahead without you, it _was_ a curse to be feared, hated, scorned by those who could not understand. A dark omen, Witchers were supposed to be, but all Jaskier can see is the _light_ that shines within Geralt. 

But Witcher bodies were tireless and Geralt insisted he did not need the rest.

Matters of the mind, however, were a different matter entirely.

Whoever came up with that rumour that Witchers don't have emotions was talking a load of shit. 

_They do._ Everyone does. They live and breathe and blink and their hearts beat just like everybody else. They are not so dissimilar from humans or elves or any other sentient beings on the earth. If people were to take the time to look past the medallion hung around their necks, maybe they too would see that Witchers are not heartless beings made from stone and steel. They are not mindless, not without conscience or fear or worry. 

Indifferent they may seem, but it is a necessity for the work they do. It is easier to make no attachments; have no promises to fulfill and have nobody in which they are tied to. Their lives are dangerous and other lives are fleeting. Geralt has seen generations of humans go by, one by one, seen them has bright-eyed children and weathered old adults. It is easier for them all to have no connections, to have nothing that keeps them tethered. Ties to others are risky. There are too many things that can go wrong. Too many things that already have.

That is why Geralt needed the break.

He can't just keep on going forever. He's spent the majority of his life with nobody to care for him, with nobody who gives a damn about the person behind the sword. 

But he's got Jaskier now. And maybe it's risky and maybe it's doomed to end in broken pieces that can't be put together, (Jaskier is determined it won't. He's full of surprises. Maybe cheating death is impossible, but people had said the same things of a human and WItcher becoming friends, and look where they are now) but Jaskier _cares._ He cares so goddamn much and Geralt needed this break. He needed a break from the tireless fighting and death and darkness that he had surrounded himself with, needed a break from the very dregs of society, the monsters in the dark and the killers with their bloodied daggers. He _needed_ a break and he needed to get away.

So here they are. 

They stand in silence for a few moments; for, believe it or not, Jaskier is capable of not opening his mouth every three seconds. As in, he has to make an _effort_ to be quiet, but everything right now is so peaceful, so nice and calm and _silent_ and right now Jaskier just really doesn't want to break that. 

So he keeps his mouth shut, just for a few more minutes. He feels the sea breeze against his skin, feels it rush through his hair and sting his cheeks. He can smell the salt, the seaweed. It is fresh and clean and new, it smells like _life_.

"I should write a song about this." He eventually says, voice catching on the wind. "A song about a siren who serenades me out to sea, but then she tried at drown me and simultaneously broke my tender heart for I had fallen madly and passionately in love with her silken voice, but I killed her to save myself, stealing her voice. And _that's_ why I sing like an angel." He tilts his head upwards, mouth left slightly open as he tastes the sea breeze on his lips. "Or maybe I'll write a song about a beautiful maiden, running away from the tyranny of her family… we meet and share a night of wild passion before-" 

Geralt steps backwards from the cliff face, eyes flickering down to look at Jaskier. He looks unimpressed and thoroughly sick of Jaskier's shit, but there's also a fondness lingering in his gaze that Jaskier does not miss. 

"Or maybe I'll just sing of peace. The world needs happier tunes, the world needs hope." He says quietly, tone shifting to something of melancholy. 

Geralt had needed a break, but so had Jaskier. The emotions around Jaskier affected him greatly. He was turbulence, he was the clouds in the sky who follow the wind, who are led on by those he sees around him. The world was dark and fearful and people were full of sorrow and they pulled along pain, shackled around their legs like invisible weights, dragging them down and down and further into starless nights. But out here the wind blows towards the light.

He looks up at Geralt, looks up at the sunlight that paints his face in fired warmth. He squints at the brightness of light, hands shadowing over his eyes. He's happy here. He's not been this happy in a long time.

Geralt begins to walk away, still not saying anything but he gives Jaskeir a _look,_ and Jaskier instinctively follows him. Side by side, they walk, following the winding path, uneven with cliff-chalk and cobbles, that twists down the cliff face, leading to the sandy expanse of the gold-spun beach.

Crickets chirrup in the long grass, singing their own kind of music from underneath flowering shrubbery and from between the blossoms of flowers, speckled like stars amongst the night sky across the hills of green. Butterflies flutter their technicolour wings, light turning them translucent as though they were spun from stained glass. Birds twitter, little sparrows with their tawny wings taking flight as they wander by. The gull's cry rings out in the distance, echoing like thunder.

The two make their way onto the beach, step from the stone-wrought path and onto the smoothness of sand, a blanket of sun-gold beneath their feet. 

Stones litter the shoreline. Jaskier can tell which rocks have been here for years; which ones have felt the pull of sea-tide and been washed out, had their edges smoothed and their roughness filed down. He can tell which ones have not, the ones who have only just arrived, still hard and calloused. The sea is calming; the sea is an _escape_ from the roughness of the world, temporary as it may be.

Shells hide under the sand like half-forgotten treasures. Empty oyster shells, midnight black with their streaks of aurora blue, speckles of constellations in mottled white. A mirror of night sky, trapped in the earth itself. Razor shells and butterfly shells, all shades of lilac and pink and orange and brown; with the creatures who had dwelt in them long gone, but the skeletons of their homes left in rainbow colour. 

Tiny little hermit crabs scuttle around their feet, little orange claws _snip snip snipping_ in the evening air and Jaskier doesn't miss the way Geralt takes extra care not to step around them.

The sun dips lower and the world really seems as if it's on fire. Jaskier only feels peace, as though the world is truly ending and all that is left is him and Geralt at the end of it all. It feels like that, sometimes, out here. As though they are somewhere else, a division in time itself, a little pocket where it's just _them_ and the sky alight with orange flame. 

Dried seaweed is heaped in pools upon the sand. Bulbous purple turned light-filtered brown where air pockets have pulled it tight. They crunch under their feet, crackling like firewood. Fisherman's tackles, their rust-coloured lines and azure ropes, tangle underneath their feet, frayed edges stuck underneath the snaking tentacles of seaweed. Like a Siren's braids of hair, it reeks of the ocean, of fish and salt and fresh air. 

He wants to write a song about all of this, but he doesn't want it sung at taverns or belted out by drunkards over their pints of ale.

He wants it _here,_ now. Sung alone under twilight sky, soft and low and crooning, sung in private corners and moments of peace. He wants it to be _their_ song, a melody that only the two of them know. A secret, something that they share, something that nobody else can touch.

As Geralt comes to stop at the shoreline, the frothed white seafoam drifting up to the very tips of their shoes, Jaskier strums out a few chords. He plays what feels right, an experimental little melody that at first stumbles and pauses but, as with all his music, he soon gets into the rhythm of it. He hums a tune, dispersing words and lines here and there, repeating it all until he knows what he wants, his lyrics pulled like magic from the twilight sky.

The music swells, growing in volume, growing in confidence. Jaskier's voice soars and he is accompanied by the rush of the sea, the cry of the gulls from their chalk-cliff homes. A symphony of the seabeds and ocean floors.

His voice fades out, barely a murmur in the breeze. It catches on the air itself, rising and falling until all that is left is the strum of his lute, delicate and gentle and becoming one with the world, as though his music has become woven within it, threaded and pulled until it cannot be seen where the two separate.

The song ends and Jaskier glances to his side, only for his eyes to meet with Geralt's own. There's an intense expression on his face, an unreadable message written across the shape of his lips. Jaskier's throat feels tight.

"You were right." Geralt mumbles out, voice low and thick. Jaskier's brow furrows, gaze flickering from the strands of gold threaded through Geralt's eyes to the flames of sunlight, growing brighter as the sky darkens under night's careful path. 

Geralt sighs, something he does quite often when Jaskier is around. "We needed a break." 

Jaskier breaks out into a grin, confusion vanishing like the parting of winter clouds. The moment is broken, replaced with something louder and bolder, yet still beautiful in its own right. "Of course I was right! I do have good ideas _sometimes,_ you know. I keep telling you this but _no-o,_ you don't listen to me-" Jaskier continues to prattle on, voice an endless stream of his consciousness, the topic drifting further and further away from what it had once been, Jaskier simply doing what he does best; talking about whatever springs to his mind.

Geralt watches him in silence, a twist of fondness tugging at his lips. He wasn't really listening to what Jaskier was saying, not at all. Not that Jaskier would mind, he just liked to talk, really. If Geralt wasn't here he'd probably just talk to himself. 

"-Have you ever skipped stones?" Jaskier looks expectantly at Geralt, hands resting on his hips, blue eyes gleaming under dark eyelashes in a show of mock-offence. There's an amused look to his face, as though this is an 'argument' they have had countless times before. (They have. Jaskier talks _a lot_ ) "You know, one of these days I might say something incredibly wise and profound and important and you'll _miss_ that! Then you'll be sorry!" He says with a laugh.

Geralt doesn't bother with an answer, silently watching as Jaskier wanders off, picking up stones as he goes along. He's actually looking for stones. He's genuinely going to skip them. _This is what humans do for entertainment,_ Geralt thinks. _They skip stones. Fucking stones._

Jaskier returns only a few moments later, dumping about a dozen or so flat-ish stones at his feet. He keeps one in his hand and with a look of severe concentration worn on his face that Geralt rarely sees, he makes a big show of bringing his arm back, adjusting his stance as if he knows exactly what he's doing. Jaskier flings the stone out to sea, not without a dramatic flair of his wrist, of course. It skips once before landing in the water with a splash.

Geralt snorts. 

"Oh, fuck off."

And, despite himself, Geralt picks up one of the stones at Jaskier's feet. "It's harder than it looks, you know!" Jaskier protests, arms folded across his chest. With a slightly raised eyebrow, Geralt tosses the stone. They watch it for a moment, Jaskier scowling.

"Nine." 

"Are you sure? Huh, I must have missed it. Well, let's just call it a draw then, hmm?" 

Geralt laughs, and _he actually fucking laughs._ It's deep and rumbling and _oh god_ Jaskier feels his knees go weak. He wants to hear that sound, again and again, he wants to be the person who _makes_ Geralt laugh. Fuck, he wants this more than he's wanted anything in his entire life. 

"D-did you just laugh?" Jaskier blurts out, grabbing one of Geralt's hands before he can stop himself. 

"Shut up." Geralt growls and Jaskier sees something uncomfortable flicker across his face, something uncertain and, dare he say it, _embarrassed._ Jaskier hurriedly holds on tighter to Geralt's hand in his own, tracing the scars along his knuckles and the divots of his fingers, an absent-minded gesture as he rambles on.

"Oh, no! It was beautiful! You have a beautiful laugh, I wish you'd laugh more often, although maybe I just need to try and be funnier, but-" he pulls himself away, as if suddenly aware of Geralt's hand cradled between his own. At a loss of what to do, he flaps his hands about nervously, shifting his weight back and forth from one foot to the other. "you- _you're_ beautiful, and, I, just-" He breaks off, unsure of what to say next. He fiddles about with his hands, nervously, decidedly not looking at Geralt. 

But then Jaskier feels a weight lay across his shoulders. He looks up, blue meeting gold. Geralt lays his arm across Jaskier's shoulder, his fingers resting just above his collarbone. It's an awkward hold, Geralt looks incredibly unsure of himself and he keeps _looking_ at Jaskier like he's supposed to know what he's thinking. (Jaskier still has no fucking clue what that expression means. Geralt's been looking at him like that with more and more frequency and _every single time_ Jaskier is left feeling as though he's missing something very important) If it were anyone else Jaskier would be uncomfortable, he'd be wanting to get away from this arm around his shoulder and the intense, burning gaze. But it's _Geralt_ and Jaskier knows that he doesn't do _this._ He's not a touchy-feely person, he doesn't initiate contact, he doesn't touch or hug or show affection like _this._

Yes, Geralt does have 'intimacy', for lack of a better word, with others, but it's not the same. Sex, it's not… the sex Geralt has isn't like _this_. It's not personal and meaningful and caring. Sex is a distraction, a temporary release. It's something to do, something for pleasure and something to unwind with. Geralt's arm around his shoulder is something else entirely.

Jaskier looks out to the sea. The sun is almost gone now. The burning light has spread like bleeding ink across the horizon, dispersing into the moon's dark night. It looks as if the sun itself has dipped into the sea, saltwater washing out the light and dousing the fire. 

Stars are beginning to twinkle up in the sky, much clearer and much brighter than the ones in mainland, the ones around villages where torches burn bright all night. 

Jaskier glances down at the stones at his feet, thinks of the world they've left behind them. Stories and legends he's heard from across his travels, ones from mothers and fathers and children and the elderly, stories from other travellers and people who have studied the history of the world. He's heard millions of things, legends myths and tales. But he looks at the stones and he remembers tired eyes and weathered skin.

"You know, somebody once told me, back when I'd first started singing, about this tradition that people who lived by the sea and rivers and lakes used to do." He pauses, feet kicking about through the sand and rocks until he finds a stone that isn't yet smoothed by the ocean's waves. He picks it up, feels its roughness in his hands, how it's made of sharp edges and uneven surfaces. Geralt watches him in silence.

"She said that they used to find rocks, ones like these that are all rough and jagged, and then, if they had anything they were worried about, any regrets or any fears or anything that caused them pain in their lives… they'd think about it, imagine they were pouring all that negativity into the rock itself, and then fling it out into the water." He runs his fingers over the edges of the stone cradled in his palms, feeling the uneven texture scratching at the pads of his fingertips. "It was to let go of it all, she told me. To set yourself free of those negative things and then, eventually, the water would smooth out all the rough edges. It would make it all smooth, all soft. 'Because everything heals eventually', she told me. 'Even if it takes years and years for it to happen.'"

Jaskier squirms under Geralt's gaze, suddenly feeling slightly foolish. "I don't know. I guess it just stuck with me. It's just… superstition, but it's a nice thought, I suppose."

He thumbs the stone in his hands. He thinks of Geralt, thinks of his eyes and the way he looks at him. Think of the times when Jaskier gets injured, (which is a _lot,_ to be honest) how nervous he is, how there is something like fear that lingers in his eyes when Jaskier bleeds. He thinks of the ways he cares, even if he won't say it out loud. He thinks of Geralt, always silent and always trying to hide the softness underneath that hardened exterior. He thinks of the twitch of his lips when he hides a smile, he thinks of his face now, since they've come to the sea. Relaxed and calm, peaceful for once in his life. He's always been handsome, ridiculously so, but like this; when there is no fear of death, no monsters looming around the corner and now sword gripped in his hand, he's the most beautiful creature Jaskier has ever seen. 

Jaskier thinks of his cowardice. Of what he _wants_ to do but has never wanted to risk. Being out here, where there is no death and pain and war and darkness, he realises that they don't have all the time in the world. They don't have forever and eventually their time together will slip away. They will have to return soon, they will have to go back to reality, The coast was a temporary break, something that wouldn't last forever. But nothing lasts forever, nothing is sacred and nothing can ever be unchanged by the world. Even if they have to go back, even if _this_ isn't eternal, that doesn't make it any less important. Happiness is still happiness, no matter how fleeting. 

He holds the stone, closes his eyes, takes in a deep breath. He throws it as far as he can. (which is actually pretty far, to be honest. He's rather impressed with himself)

Geralt's still watching him, still looking at him like that. The stone hits the water with an audible splash, the cry of the gulls is still ringing in the air and the ocean breathes and sighs under the darkening sky.

"What were you getting rid of, then?" Geralt asks and the entire situation is only _slightly_ ridiculous. It was just a silly old wife's tale, after all; but there's a tension, something thick and unavoidable hanging in the air. They both know that it was _more_ than that. Jaskier has always spoken in riddles and rhymes, hidden what he meant in flowery words and exaggerated gestures and this is no exception. 

"I've wanted to do something for a long time, but I've always been too fearful to just… _do it._ " Jaskier says, leaning closer to Geralt, hands reaching up to rest on his shoulders. He steps closer, tilting his head upwards. 

"Do what?" Geralt responds, voice lilted and low and deep in his throat. His eyes flicker down towards Jaskier's lips, the unreadable expression is back on his face but this time Jaskier is pretty certain he knows what it means.

" _This,_ " Jaskier whispers, leaning up. Geralt meets him halfway. lips warm and soft and (as the hopelessly romantic part of Jaskier concludes) they fit against his own like they were _made_ for this. Made to be together, made for one another. 

He snakes his arms around Geralt's neck, hands twining amongst the strands of his hair. Geralt's hands are on his hips, reaching around his back to pull them closer, nearer, until they are one body, one mind, _together._

Geralt tastes of the sea breeze, of salt and fresh air and something light and different and unlike anything Jaskier has ever tasted before. It's _addictive_ , and Jaskier pushes himself closer, his touches growing needy, his hands beginning to wander. 

They kiss under the night sky, the blue of the endless sea forgotten. 

**Author's Note:**

> shoutout to my sixth form for getting a huge widespread computer virus that shut down the entire school's systems so I could write this
> 
> also the whole throwing rocks into the sea thing is something I used to do when I was younger and would go to the coast with my grandparents. I'm certain it's a thing that a lot of people do but tbh I don't really know. I just, uhh, really fuckin like the sea.


End file.
